


A New Day

by SuperClark_BatBruce



Series: SuperBat Universe [2]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: Abuse of Puppy Dog Eyes, Bruce is Not A Morning Person, Clark is A Morning Person, Clark is Annoying, Early Mornings, Fluff, M/M, Morning Kisses, Morning Routines, Mornings, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Protein Bar Hate
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-07-15 08:59:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7216057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperClark_BatBruce/pseuds/SuperClark_BatBruce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cute and fluffy sort of segue into the next round of investigations, fights, love scenes, and general mayhem. Reading Mix & Match first is recommended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A New Day

**Author's Note:**

> An RP written by sonxfkrypton and doyoubleedxyouwill on tumblr
> 
> A "-" denotes where each writer stopped and started.

Clark beat Bruce’s alarm clock by a good seven minutes. He always did. The thing was loud and annoying, and Bruce never woke up long enough to take care of it himself. That he knew that about his partner still pleased Clark terribly. The thing between them was still new and fragile, but Clark knew how Bruce took his coffee, that he took his lunch at 2 PM on most days, and what he really meant when he said ‘five more minutes.’ It was a start, but a really good one.

He woke up in increments. Expanded his hearing until Metropolis came into his range. There was some chatter on the streets, but nothing since he’d come back at four-thirty the previous night. Clark stretched.

Four minutes.

Alfred was downstairs, pouring a cup of coffee by the sound of it. That meant breakfast was already prepared and just needed to be walked upstairs. Clark wondered if he could ask where they’d gotten their oranges or if he was better off just flying to Florida. He rubbed at Bruce’s shoulder until his partner curled towards him and made a grumpy, fussy sound like a cat who wanted attention but hated it, too. There had been a tomcat on the farm just like that. Clark very carefully did not tell Bruce that he’d made that comparison.

One minute.

Clark zipped out of bed, took a shower, changed cloths, brushed his teeth, and tamed his wild mess of bed hair before slapping on an incredible amount of hair gel to keep that stubborn curl in the center of his head from popping back into place. He took his time doing his tie, made sure the knot made it hang just a little to the left. He could still see last week’s ink stain on it. 

Then he opened the door to greet Alfred good morning and took their breakfast tray. The only arson he took more than ten seconds was because Alfred had to release the tray.

Zero.

The alarm went off and Clark shut it down with a gentle tap before throwing the drapes open and throwing Bruce’s blanket to the foot of the bed with a smile. “Good morning.”

-

The last few weeks had been a whirlwind of healing and investigating and sex. Lots of sex. More sex than he probably should have had considering the whole healing thing but Bruce wouldn’t have had it any other way. There was just too much to learn about Clark and Superman as well as the bombing to take anything laying down, though he _did_ take a lot laying down as well. 

Alfred was not amused at the ripped stitches and the full-bodied ache from a thorough fucking when said body needed more rest than it was being given. Bruce did his best to balance things, but he was very focused on the case and chasing down leads that Clark had found, contacting Gordon for other intel and putting everything together and he wasn’t going to deny himself his fun. The one thing he hadn’t gotten used to yet - yet - was sleeping with Clark. Actual sleeping or, more specifically the waking up with Clark. The man was an incessant morning person with all that that entailed.

Bruce was not a morning person.

He never had been and it had just gotten worse when he’d taken up the Batman mantle, protecting Gotham at night. In that sense, as with others, he was the complete opposite of Clark. Clark… with his cheery ‘good mornings’, his bright smiles, up and ready before the alarm even went off. No respect for those that needed just a few more minutes. 

When he was suddenly exposed to the sunlight and the coolish air of the room, Bruce groaned loudly and curled in on himself, one hand reaching to try and grab the sheet or the blanket back, “ _Nghhuffawwff_ …” he whined out, stretching out his back as he tried to hide himself in amongst the pillows, “ _Noo_ ….”

Clark would probably never understand the need to sleep a few more minutes, Bruce was sure of that, but he was certainly going to try and make him see the merits, one day. One day he would. Today, however, was apparently not that day and now Bruce had to contend with Clark in all his morning glory, chipper attitude and all. 

-

Clark moved his partner with careful ease, until Bruce was forced to lie on his back. He settled over the other man’s belly, hovering a fraction of an inch over his skin, just the hint of his weight threatening Bruce as he stretched his legs out before him, over the edge of the bed. There was no way Bruce was going to turn back over, not without at least a forklift to help him, and then only if Clark was feeling generous. 

“You’re going to be late.” He said, soft and stern and just far too amused for his own good as he reached out to comb his fingers through the other man’s hair. “And Alfred made coffee.”

Black as the night for Bruce, and some monstrosity with enough milk and sugar to thicken his drink for Clark. Clark always appreciated the butler’s attempt at replicating a farmer’s breakfast, but he grew up in Kansas. He knew what breakfast steak really was. Still, those waffles were always fantastic.

-

It was a pathetic attempt at trying _not_ to roll over for Clark, he barely even made an effort. That was always the justification even though they both knew that Bruce would have to move however Clark wanted him to. It was the illusion of control that he needed, if only for his ego.

The look that Clark was currently giving him, paired with that pleased sort of tone that gave away his non commitment to actually being stern. Well, Bruce knew Clark wasn’t going to let him go back to sleep but there was probably no actual distress about him being late. 

“So?” Bruce ventured, narrowing his eyes even as he smiled at the feel of Clark’s hand in his hair, “What’re they gonna do? Fire me? They can’t…. I’m the boss…. and besides, Alfred can make more coffee later…” his expression turned coy as he slid his hand along Clark’s inner arm to his chest, “Don’t you want to cuddle for a bit?” Bruce did his best puppy-dog eyes that he could muster even though Clark surely had the market cornered on that sort of look.

-

Clark always vehemently denied doing ‘that thing with the eyes,’ as Bruce liked to call it. Bruce on the other hand used it like a finely tuned weapon. He laughed easily, leaning over until they were chest to chest and he could draw the other man into a slow, lingering kiss. Minty fresh, to boot. 

“I thought there was talk about handcuffing you to your desk?” He asked, frowning exaggeratedly as he settled over Bruce. “Oh no wait, that was us.” He was still being careful, a habit Clark couldn’t live without. Even as the distance between them dwindled, his weight hardly pressed Bruce down.

-

Bruce laughed, the sound low in his chest and deepened by sleepiness and the start of something far more intriguing. The mint in Clark’s mouth was refreshing but he pulled away, not knowing what his own morning breath was doing, probably something unpleasant. As Clark settled over him, barely putting weight on him, Bruce reached up and surreptitiously positioned his legs as he muzzled their noses together to distract him. It was for science, really, he just wanted to know how well his ribs had healed, there were many more excuses he would conjure up when Alfred gave him his own version of the look. But in the moment, maybe Bruce just wanted to be on top? He flipped them both over with a perfectly executed jiu jitsu move and rested on Clark with his full weight.

“Haven’t told Chelsea to order a new desk with the proper design to attach the cuffs yet…” he mumbled as he smoothed his hands down Clark’s muscular arms lightly massaging as he went, “So we wouldn’t be able t'do that anyway…"

-

“Bruce!” Clark gasped, comically surprised. He had a mind like a super computer, and was still so easily distracted when it came to his partner. “My shirt’ll get wrinkled.”

Still with that faint tone of surprise, it really must have been a little too early for both of them. Normally Clark Kent’s shirts were always wrinkled because while he knew how to use an iron, he just… didn’t. This, however, was a far more enjoyable way to rumple himself up. Most of Bruce’s fashion-savvy friends would have happily shot the shirt and put it out of its misery anyway.

Clark wound his arms around the other man’s waist, leaning in until their foreheads touched so he could chide lightly. “You’re going to give her another ulcer you know, one of these days, but if you’re awake enough for that…”

Bruce should have expected something then. Clark was not an expert in martial arts, but he was incredibly, infuriatingly strong. Also, he could fly, and with Bruce on top of him, the bed got a little farther from them as they hovered in the air. “You’re awake enough to join me for breakfast.”

-

Bruce just chuckled, wishing Clark would let him buy him some new clothes. He always said no, though, and Bruce mostly understood that need for independence and self-sufficiency. Mostly. But whatever Clark was wearing Bruce thought he pulled it off well. He was biased, yes, but he didn’t care. Sure their relationship was new but Bruce had never felt like this about someone before. Maybe it was the fatigue talking but having someone fighting by his side both as Bruce Wayne and as the Batman meant morethan he could express.

“She has healthcare…” he retorted with playful petulance, noticing they were moving when he turned his head, “Such a cheater…” there was no venom in his words and he leaned forward, morning breath be damned, and tried a different tactic.

Maybe a tantalizing kiss and a not-subtle-at-all roll of his hips would convince Clark to stay.

-

Clark let himself be swayed, humming contentedly into Bruce’s mouth as he let his hands wander down his side, savoring the moment between them. Then he dropped Bruce like a sack of potatoes on his very plush couch. Clark didn’t bother hiding his smile.

He was in a good mood. He always was nowadays. Hell, he’d started humming, the way he used to when Lana Lang changed her perfume back in high school, and he couldn’t find it in himself to be even slightly embarrassed. He hovered to his seat wearing Clark Kent, but not completely, and he was too content to care because in that moment, he thought Kal would be welcome here, too.

“You’re welcome.”

-

For a split second, Bruce’s heart was in his throat as his world fell away into a free fall. It was stopped short, thankfully, by expensive cushions and he whined out a laugh as he watched Clark float to his seat with a very entertained and very charming smile. He couldn’t help rolling his eyes though his own smile didn’t falter at the ‘you’re welcome’ and he pushed himself up slowly, resting his elbows on his knees.

The words slipped out almost before he caught them, “You’re lucky I…” _love you_  “Let you stay for breakfast…” he finished quickly, snorting lightly as he grabbed a pillow and chucked it at Clark’s head, “Unfortunately, I don’t have your super speed, so my shower’s gonna take a bit longer than yours and I’m sure you’re not gonna wanna mess up your hair to join me so… have your coffee… promise I won’t fall asleep in the shower…” Bruce punctuated the promise with a yawn. 

-

Clark took the pillow straight to his face, an exaggerated pout twisting his features before he squished it in his arms. “Rude,” he huffed haughtily, but that didn’t hide the amusement in his eyes. With the most threatening air Clark could muster without Lex Luthor in the immediate vicinity, he pushed one of the plates Alfred had set out. “But I know you, Bruce Wayne. You’ll shove a protein bar down your throat and call it good. You can shower later, because one of us actually has to show up to work on time.”

Their knees knocked under the table, and Clark just tried to take up more space. “But I’m guessing that lead didn’t work out like you expected? If you were out until four.”

-

Bruce opened his mouth to protest but ended up letting out a defeated breath and shook his head as he reached for a piece of toast, muttering under his breath for good measure between bites, “Nothing wrong with protein bars…” before swallowing and narrowing his eyes at Clark’s antics under the table. 

Though the toast was fantastic and the rest of the meal delicious, as always, Bruce was still put out by Clark’s chipperness and he jumped on the chance to move to business, “No, it didn’t…” he pursed his lips and his brow furrowed lightly as he stepped his foot forward so that it was between Clark’s, just because, “We’ll have to go back to… well, not square one exactly, but we’ll have to retrace our steps… I want to look at the logs of the toll bridges and get my hands on the CCTV surveillance cameras from every entrance into the city… I know there’s something we’re missing….” 

But not all business… somehow, as he spoke, his foot wiggled up under the cuff of Clark’s trousers of his left leg and his cold toes pressed against the warmth of his calf through his sock. He kept a perfectly straight face as he did this, simply talking and eating his breakfast like nothing was happening.

-

“They taste like cardboard and icing, Bruce. There is _nothing_  right with them. It’s not even good icing.” Clark did not keep a perfectly straight face. He was insulted on behalf of everyone with taste buds on the planet. Then again, Clark would probably not complain too much if he had to eat a shovel full of processed sugar. And that expressiveness didn’t go away once they started talking shop, mentally calling up a snap shot of Gotham’s highways the same way people would Google a map. 

“Mannheim’s unhappy but he’s been quiet.” Clark said. The mob boss was acting more like a legitimate businessman nowadays, though not by choice. Even though his lawyers got him released from police custody about 0.6 seconds have he’d been arrested, Metropolis PD had been taking extra care to make sure their presence was known. It wouldn’t stop him in the long run, but for now, he was kept at bay. “There are a few more things I want to follow up on before I’m sure, but my gut says he’s got nothing to do with the missing uranium.”

Then he froze, mouth falling open in a quiet o, and Clark forgot all about the extra cheese Alfred put in his scrambled eggs. He reached under the table, idly massaging Bruce’s ankle with one hand. It was a moment before he spoke. “You still think it’s a dirty bomb?”

-

Bruce ignored the quip about his protein bars, Clark would probably never have the discipline to eat healthy in his entire life what with the whole invincible thing. He remembered seeing Clark eat two entire pizzas and nearly a gallon of pop in one sitting. The guy had no idea. 

He sighed happily at the impromptu massage, wishing that he could get a full-body massage from Clark but knowing the boy scout would never agree. He’d have to make an appointment with Janice later, get the knots in his back worked out. A cursory nod at Clark’s intel about Mannheim and Bruce scooped some eggs into his mouth, perfect as always, good ol’ Alfred.

“Yes, it’s the only hypothesis I can come up with without more information…” he set his fork down and leaned back, “I’ll talk to Gordon again tonight, had him send some of his team to check on a few businesses in Gotham connected with Mannheim but he mentioned he was going to talk to the Metropolis commissioner off the record… maybe something will pan out there….”

Reluctantly, he pulled his foot back and moved to sit on Clark’s lap, one arm around his shoulder so the other hand could cup his face as he smiled at him, “Keep me updated, okay? The sooner we  get more information the sooner we can figure this out and the sooner we can rest easy….” Giving Clark a sweet little kiss, Bruce stood and stretched his back with a groan, “And don’t worry… I’m up… I promise I’ll eat breakfast,” he nodded towards the food he’d left on the table, as in ‘not a protein bar’, and rubbed at his face before yawning again, “But right now, I really need a shower."

-

Clark snorted. He was sure Bruce would _rest easy_ once the planet exploded and there was no injustice left in the known universe that required Batman’s attention, but until then, Clark would have been happy for more slow evenings. He smiled into the kiss, letting out a contented sigh as he nuzzled into his partner’s cheek.

He would have protested more, if he hadn’t been distracted. Clark tensed. It was barely a couple of seconds, subtle and terribly easy to miss. Clark was always careful, even when he was listening to an emergency across the lake. As Bruce stretched, there was a blur of movement before Clark appeared in front of him, a pair of glasses on his head. He caught Bruce unawares in one last kiss before Bruce even righted himself. 

“There’s a cat in a tree that needs me,” he teased. “Don’t be late Mr. Wayne.” Then Superman was on the job.

-

Bruce was startled by the kiss and he let out an exasperated breath as Clark was gone before he could even say anything. “That’s…. annoying…” he muttered to an empty room, deliberately shoving the ‘ _so this is what everyone pretty much feels like when I disappear on them_ ’ thought away quickly. It was no time for games and even though he really wanted to go back to bed, he was disciplined enough to keep to his word and start his day.

They needed to figure out what was going on with the uranium and who was behind it. Mannheim seemed to be out of the game for now and that made Bruce worry that Mannheim was just the distraction for this larger plot.

With a sigh, he headed to the shower, already planning his day and his daydreams about Clark’s lips faded into the background. 


	2. Fairy Tales

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Undercover mission to gather intel. Batman goes further than Superman approves of and they end up fighting about it in the batcave. Next point of contact revealed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last chunk of stuff we got written for this series and unfortunately I haven't been able to get in touch with my friend to continue it. I'm afraid I probably won't be able to finish this one for you :( 
> 
> It's the same as the previous works, rp'd between doyoubleedxyouwill and sonxfkrypton on tumblr. The '-' denotes where there's a writer switch.

“Don’t worry, Clark…” Bruce smirked, looking into Clark’s eyes with an overdone it’s-okay-little-buddy sort of look, “One day, I’ll get Alfred to teach you to tie your bowtie properly… for now, though, you’ll just _have_ to be content with letting me do it…”

Bruce was pressed close to Clark, dutifully fixing his tie, taking full advantage of the necessity of the task at hand to embarrass the man a bit. Making Clark’s cheeks redden was so satisfying in and of itself that Bruce would probably be happy just sitting around making terrible innuendoes for the rest of his life. That wasn’t entirely true but sometimes Bruce indulged himself in his fantasies knowing they would never come to fruition.

Tonight was no different, deception to hide a secret plan. They had tickets to a the ballet - Tchaikovsky’s Sleeping Beauty, a solid three hour performance - and Bruce was going to make sure that Clark looked the part even though the show was a cover. The real target, instead of spinning wheels and long naps, were the people meeting in the building next door to the theatre. There had been a tip off about it and, in particular, a man named Geoffrey Chaucer who knew important details about the stolen uranium. They had a private box at the theatre, so they wouldn’t be disturbed and could sneak out easily to complete their mission before the end of the show. It was planned down to the minute.

With Clark’s tie sitting properly at his throat, Bruce pressed a doting kiss to his nose and stepped back. “A vision, truly…” he looked Clark up and down, admiring the way the suit hugged his muscular form and though his tone was playful, he meant every single word of it.

-

“ _Bruce_.” Clark chided, trying to keep from fussing under the other man’s gaze, pointedly aware of how much blood darkened his cheeks. He was pretty sure he could have done a better job of it. It all just felt like so much. He didn’t want to ask how much his suit cost. He figured he’d have to measure that in his apartment’s monthly rent. It was crisp and smart, easily better and more expensive than anything a mild-mannered reporter should have owned, and it felt almost as jarring as going out as Clark Kent without his glasses.

Their targets had found a place they thought the mysterious Batman could not touch them: in the light of Gotham. Little did they know that even the sparkles of the city’s brightest jewels hid barbs. They hid among the rich and powerful of Gotham’s elite, in a restaurant that had earned its Michelin stars. Unknowingly, the venue gave them added protection. Bruce Wayne would be spotted a mile away, and curious eyes would never leave him if he stepped foot into the building.

It was Clark’s job to help track their target. Bruce would have depended on his surveillance alone if installing had been worth the risk, but he’d chosen to take advantage of a method that was more difficult to trace. Besides, nothing could quite touch the accuracy of super hearing. It was a real pity. Clark was looking forward to Sleeping Beauty.

He fiddled with his bowtie, unintentionally leaving it askew as he asked, “Are you sure about this?”

A lot of people were going to be there. A lot of people who could comment about Bruce’s choice of company.

-

With a light-hearted chuckle, Bruce turned from Clark to give him some recovery time, heading to his dresser to pull open a drawer of a small chest that held numerous cufflinks. Expensive cufflinks. As he fussed with himself for a moment, he went over the plan in his head again and nodded to reassure Clark.

“Yes, of course, I’ll make sure to make enough of a scene before the show with Ekatarina that no one will even notice you coming in, let alone going up to the box…” he smiled and sighed, wanting one last little poke at Clark before they headed out in different cars, “Though maybe I shouldn’t have put you in such a magnificent suit… maybe there _will_ be eyes on you, Mr. Kent…”

The drive to the theatre was uneventful and as Bruce entered with Ms. Vasilyeva, cranking his smile and gregarious nature to eleven, he looked at the next hour or so as the true test. Each time he had to put on the Bruce Wayne persona it drained him, it was so much simpler, so much easier and _honest_ to be the Batman, but this was a necessary evil. He flirted shamelessly, was loud and boisterous and carefully handsy with Ekaterina, never crossing a certain line with her. 

They had met two years prior while she was trying to break into an acting career from modelling and Bruce had been at a fashion shoot where she was featured. It was one of those things that he did when he had time, research pointing to this particular photographer as the worst of the worst when it came to treating models and staff with decency, as in he had none. Bruce being Bruce needed solid evidence and had bought his way into the shoot to see it for himself and the man was truly vile. The clandestine campaign to make sure the creep never worked another day in the industry was surprisingly fast and effective though who had been the driving force behind it was never discovered. 

Though he would never use his influence to demand a return on the favour, Bruce sometimes did ask the models to accompany him to events and on trips, keeping a strict rule about where the line was and it was always respected and gratefully accepted. The women knew Bruce was a true ally but made sure to keep his reputation intact, dropping hints here and there, little nuggets of juicy gossip into the right ears where it would spread like wildfire through the proper communities. It was a mutually beneficial relationship which Bruce took seriously as he did most things. 

When Bruce finally pulled away from the crowds with the implication he wanted a little alone time with his date before the show started, he was more than ready to get on with things. He dropped off Ekatarina in the private box below his own, making sure she had everything she needed to enjoy the performance and then headed up, letting out a breath as he closed the door and leaned back against it. He allowed himself only a beat before he was pushing off and pulling at his tie, wanting to get down to business as quickly as possible, “Update?”

-

Sometimes it just felt too generous to say that Bruce was right. Clark flustered on cue, huffing and crossing his arms over his chest before they left, but not before swinging them back and forth, still quietly baffled at having a suit fit without the risk of it popping. (He was pretty sure he could still get it to pop if he tried, but he would have to _try._  That made so much difference.) It was a distraction he needed. This was one quandary he didn’t want to look too closely at.

Protecting Bruce’s identity and by extension his reputation was ital. Clark understood it, probably better than anyone else on Earth, but it still gave him pause when he got into his car. It was a nondescript black sedan, far more comfortable than anything he owned, and it wouldn’t crumple his suit like flying across town probably would. Certainly it was a lot less flashier than the stretch limousine Bruce had called up, which Clark greedily appreciated, but he was still getting into it alone. And Bruce’s date was going to be splashed across every gossip column in Gotham. Metropolis only got that news if Brucie Wayne did something incredibly salacious. 

Clark had met Ekatarina once, a lovely woman who complimented his smile and made him feel like his ribs were too tight when she laughed. She wasn’t the problem. The problem shouldn’t even have been a problem, it was just… Clark wasn’t riding in that too flashy limo, and Clark never would.

But he could worry about that when they found out who was smuggling uranium into Gotham and why.

“We have three players present. Half a dozen armed guards, but no Chaucer yet.” Clark rattled off their names softly, all mid-level crooks that Batman would probably be able to put away or use. “And the chef’s tried a new quinoa recipe.”

He was only half joking.

-

Bruce hummed and nodded, recognizing a few of the names. He quirked an eyebrow at Clark’s mention of quinoa but said nothing, concentrating on going over the plan again with the new intel. Clark’s voice came again, whispering over his skin though he hadn’t moved and Bruce shut his eyes as he listened, wanting the entire experience, no matter how indulgent it was to do so.

“They keep talking about… dogs, the dog pit? Not sure why they need men there, maybe an underground gambling thing?” Clark sounded confused and Bruce smiled.

“The Dog Pit is the eastern doc near Gotham Pointe, must be where the next shipment is coming in…” Bruce sighed quietly as the lights on the stage went dark and the music started to play. When the dancers streamed onto the stage, he turned and placed a hand on Clark’s arm, “We can enjoy five minutes, the ushers will be out of the halls then and we can move to the next part of the plan. Do you have questions?” He moved closer, just enough that he could feel the heat from Clark’s body, indulging, always indulging, he needed to watch that, it was becoming a problem. 

-

Clark frowned, mentally going through the list of Gotham Ports. The only one he knew that was anywhere close to the Pointe was the Port of Cheyenne. Vital minutes shaved off of an investigation. This was Batman’s town after all. 

He met Bruce’s eye, quirking a brow. Clark wasn’t smiling but it was a close thing. “Confirm target. Pursue and interrogate at a quieter venue. I don’t know, Bruce. It’s complicated, but I can keep up.”

Clark sincerely believed that it wasn’t sarcasm if it was said politely enough, or at least, he sincerely believed that other people believed that. Times like this were what Superman’s reputation was most valuable for. 

He paused though, as the lights dimmed and his focus was drawn to the stage. The first dulcet tones of the orchestra filled the theater, and it was all Clark needed to be caught. The performers were gliding onto the stage. They looked like they were flying, and Clark would know. A fragile delicate grace unfurled every motion, but it was terrible precision and infinite control that bore that grace. 

A soft sigh caught in his throat, and Clark relaxed in his seat, just a little more. These were the best seats in the house. If only he could keep this.

“Chaucer’s on site.”

-

Bruce snorted quietly, smiling and shaking his head at Clark’s borderline-sassy reply. Typical. 

It was a shame they didn’t get to enjoy the ballet but there was important business to attend to. Bruce grabbed the go-bag that was stashed in the box and headed out. In no time flat, Superman and Batman were entering the building, heading to the floor below the restaurant where the meeting was taking place. Now, it was a waiting game.

Batman felt Superman tense up and he crouched in response, ready for action.

“They’ve split up.” it was amazing how different Clark sounded when he donned the tights and cape, all business, “Two heading west and two, including Chaucer, heading this way.”

“Right,” Batman instantly focused, rerunning the plan with the unexpected change, “You take the two to the west, I’ll handle these two.”

Without waiting for confirmation, Batman was off, trusting Clark explicitly. The two men came through the door and Batman sprang into action. The room was ideal for a confrontation, underutilized by the staff of the restaurant and with the old walk-in freezer to mute the sounds of fighting, they were guaranteed privacy. One quick punch to one man’s head and Bruce was left with only one, Chaucer, to deal with. He left the other unconscious on the floor and as Chaucer took off running, shot his batline through the man’s arm and jerked back hard. 

Chaucer’s scream was cut off when he hit the back wall of the freezer and he scrambled to try and push back even further as Batman got right into his face. As he twisted the arrow in the criminal’s arm, Batman growled, “Talk. Tell me what you know about the explosion at Veronica Vreeland’s house and missing uranium.”

-

Clark was always more careful when in Gotham. It wasn’t entirely intentional. It might have had something to do with the man he was with, someone he was always looking to impress, or it might have had to do with the weight of shared secrets. A crowded building hadn’t done much to curb his recklessness before, but Clark took the time to map his path with x-ray vision before disappearing in a blur, leaving Bruce’s expensive suit folded in front of him.

Then they had a job to do. 

Superman waited, letting the men guide him to their cars, their guns holstered. There were too many people for his liking, but in a matter of minutes, the Gotham Police Department would have a pair of criminals delivered to their doorstep, complete with damning evidence and if that wasn’t enough to hold them for the night, Superman suspected the Bat would be paying Commissioner Gordon and his boys a visit.

Superman did his best to remain unseen. Blaming it on professional courtesy sounded best, but if he’d known what was happening to their snitch, he’d have flown faster.

...

Chaucer screamed in pain, flinching away from the vigilante’s menacing cowl as blood dripped sluggishly down his arm, but his response was predictably unhelpful. “I don’t know anything about any of that!”

-

 A year ago, Batman would have continued the interrogation using the techniques learned from the best psychological warfare experts on earth. He had learned from psychologists, behaviour analysts, soldiers, hell even marketing masters’ manipulation techniques were helpful. But today was not a year ago. 

He had grown ever more tired of the filth that dirtied the streets of his city. Every night that passed he found himself angrier, a little more willing to use techniques that weren’t quite in line with his previous moral compass. Each little deviation grew and even with Superman’s entry into his life, Batman hadn’t bothered to pull it back. It was so easy to justify the violence. Too easy. 

Unnervingly silent, mouth set in a line as solid as his mask, Batman didn’t hesitate when he jerked the arrow out of Chaucer’s arm and his hand clamped roughly over his mouth to cut the scream off. “One more lie and I rip off your arm. _Talk_.”

Bit by bit, Chaucer talked. It took convincing, not the removal of an arm, but seven fingers were broken, three ribs cracked, numerous knees to the groin resulting in a painful testicular rupture that would definitely need medical attention had all been “necessary” in Batman’s eyes. For his trouble, he learned that Chaucer did, indeed, know about some things. 

He didn’t know much about the bomb at Ronnie’s except that it was a diversion to keep Superman out of Metropolis but the uranium, oh how he squealed about the uranium. Batman got everything from quantities ordered to quantities coming to shipping container numbers to the name of the woman in Switzerland who was in charge of things on that end. 

They had a solid lead.

-

“Batman!”

Superman wasn’t one who was caught by surprise often. He liked to group the majority of his rogues gallery into three categories: things he could really punch, things he couldn’t, and _Luthor_. He was good at thinking on his feet, good at turning a situation on its head, and more often than not, Superman could handle whatever curve ball was thrown his way. Not this time.

He didn’t want to understand the sharp stench of copper or the frantic beat of Chaucer’s pulse. He’d heard them before entering the building. He didn’t want to be right about Batman, but ignorance was a privilege he couldn’t afford. 

His expression was blank as he landed, feet touching the ground with the whisper of his cloak, but his grip on Bruce’s shoulder was like steel. Chaucer was crying, a sniveling mess of a man, and Superman didn’t look straight at him. “ _Enough_.”

He was only going to ask once.

-

Superman’s voice cut through Chaucer’s blubbering, causing both to startle though only one startled visibly. Batman growled under his breath as his hand tightened it’s grip around the front of the criminal’s shirt almost as if he was scared Superman was going to take his toy away. Looking sharply at the superhero when he landed, Batman scowled but didn’t bother trying to shrug out of the hold on his shoulder. He could feel how tightly Superman’s grip was, knew it would be impossible to simply break free from. 

There was only a heartbeat between Superman’s demand and Batman’s response, “I’ve got everything I need.” he stated firmly before jerking Chaucer forward a half of an inch so he could have the pleasure of shoving back against the wall before letting him go.

“Did you take care of the others?” his tone was still angry but he didn’t acknowledge the two men on the floor, one still unconscious and the other badly injured.

-

Superman’s jaw clenched with force that could bite through bullets, and he met Batman with an unflinching gaze. He looked through the cowl that so many of Gotham’s criminals believed was built on nightmares, and he saw the man beyond it, the man who might have been the real nightmare. Annoyance, he could read. Disappointment as well, but none of it for himself. Batman sounded like he was bragging, and in that moment, Superman wished he could take a swing at him, but he couldn’t, not with the force he wanted and not while in costume.

Without a word, he stepped away from Batman in calm, precise motions. There was a blur of movement, and Superman was gone, taking Chaucer with him. He would need multiple trips, wary of his injuries, and he knew by the time he returned, Batman would be gone, but that was fine. 

Superman would meet him at the Cave. It was better that way.

-

It was nice to not have to clean up the aftermath of his work. Batman knew that the feeling wouldn’t last much past the entrance to the Batcave when Superman arrived so he allowed himself to bask in it as he sped through the streets of Gotham a bit high on the adrenaline from it all. 

It wasn’t violence for the sake of violence. Bruce certainly didn’t get his rocks off busting noses and breaking kneecaps almost every night. No, it wasn’t like that at all. It was the simple matter of getting things done as efficiently as possible, to make sure _actual_ justice was served and not some cold, mediocre imitation. And yes, maybe there was a tiny, infinitesimally small part of Bruce that enjoyed it but he still had the control over himself to understand that it couldn’t go further than that. He still had principles, his moral compass still pointed North like it ought to, there was nothing _wrong_ with him. It was simply employing different tactics to meet different situations for the best possible outcomes. That was all. 

The trick would be convincing Superman, convincing _Clark,_ that it was in everyone’s best interests. That might not be so simple but Bruce - Batman - was ready for the challenge.

At the Cave, he tossed his gloves to the desk and pulled his cowl back as he sat at the supercomputer to start looking into one of the shipments that Chaucer had given up on the third broken finger - that one had crunched wickedly, probably snapped the tendon - tracing it through the various trade routes through the Atlantic. The blood on his suit was already dry and starting to flake off but he took no notice, it was hardly conspicuous and even if he didn’t bother to have Alfred wash it clean, if anyone did happen to see it, it would simply add another layer to his mythos. Something that was definitely welcome.

-

The crunch and crackle of stone announced his arrival. Superman had still been careful, still slowed his speed when he’d landed lest he give into the satisfaction of breaking through a wall. Clark had a tendency of believing in the best of people, especially those that were closest to him, and there was no one like Bruce, no one he’d ever met who’d come close. It wasn’t often that he was let down.

“He went into shock when we touched down at Gotham General.” Everything in his stance spelled his betrayal. He was talking down a criminal, or a dog with too many teeth. There was blood on Superman’s hands. It was tacky on his skin, leaving crimson flecked his nails. Now, even with the cowl pulled back, it was hard to see the man he’d spent the night with. 

“He was unarmed. He posed no threat to you. What the Hell were you thinking?” Superman said, voice barely above a hush, but despite it all, he wanted to be convinced. He wanted to believe there was a way to justify what Batman had done, but his disapproval of Batman’s methods stemmed from long before he knew the vigilante. 

-

Batman set his jaw when Superman arrived, keeping his eyes on his work as he was being questioned, containing his anger. There were going to be conflicts in the way that each of them chose to work, even with their personal relationship at play. Both of them knew it, expected it, but it was still unpleasant.

“He posed at _threat,_ ” one beat pause for added emphasis, his voice as measured and low as Superman’s, “To Gotham, to Metropolis, and to humanity.” That was justification enough in his eyes. The boy scout might not see it that way but it was a simple fact. Facts couldn’t be twisted or ignored when justice was being pursued.

Instead of trying to justify anything further, Batman simply carried on watching the screen as the computer went through it’s calculations, predicting the potential paths of future uranium shipments. That was in the past, as far as he was concerned, now they needed to focus on the future, on using what he had learned to find the endgame of whatever this uranium was being used for. There would be time enough _after_ that to debrief on the details of the mission.

-

Superman would not let the subject drop.

“He wasn’t a threat even before you shoved an arrow through him!” Superman snapped. There was no way, even with twice as many men to protect him that Chaucer provided anything sort of risk that would do more than slow Batman down. It might have only taken one stray bullet to destroy everything for Bruce, but he was prepared for every other shot, and nothing they’d found suggested Chaucer was anything more than a middle man. 

“You _tortured_ him, and you know damn well there were other ways to get whatever you beat out of him.” Part of Superman couldn’t even believe this was up for debate, but Batman’s brutality thrived in Gotham. Sometimes Superman wondered if thee twisted city had fed his cruelty or if it was Batman’s brand of justice that force his enemies to bloodier means. As fear begot fear, cruelty begot cruelty, and caught in the middle of it all were men like Chaucer. Vicious, heartless men, but humans nonetheless. Superman could not justify playing their judge and jury.

-

Batman’s hand curled into a tight fist when Superman pushed on, refusing to let it go. Of course he wouldn’t, Superman never had to deal with that ever present awareness of mortality. Sure, Batman hadn’t been at immanent risk but it really wouldn’t have taken much. It’s what he told himself anyway. 

He turned in his chair, doing what he had been trying to avoid for precisely the reason he’d been avoiding it. As soon as he laid eyes on Superman, it was infinitely more difficult to keep his anger. He didn’t appreciate being accused of torture but seeing the disappointment behind Superman’s eyes, eyes that should be smiling and not disillusioned, was even more unsettling. It was ridiculous, of course, there was no way that thinking like that was conducive to a healthy relationship, working or intimate and Batman swallowed hard against the feeling. He had to remain focused. 

“I didn’t _shove_ an arrow through him, I shot him in a non-lethal area to prevent his escape. I made a tactical call in the heat of battle and I would do it again. As for the…” Batman couldn’t quite allow himself to say the word ‘torture’,  “Intel I got, of course there are other ways to get it but Chaucer wasn’t going to just hand it over with a ‘pretty please’. The intel is _sound_ and that’s what matters. We need to move _forward_ into the next phase of the mission, Superman, not dwell on the past.”

-

“There are other ways to get it that don’t involve breaking seven of a man’s fingers.” Superman spat back, furious at being patronized, but it was a distraction compared to the painful incredulity that coursed through his veins. He’d always assumed that he and Batman would butt heads. They both had a very different set of ideals, for all that they both agreed on the same goals. They were both stubborn and opinionated, but after meeting the man, he didn’t think it was possible that he could fail to understand Bruce so fundamentally. 

Superman knew that a more effective argument would be that pain warped victim’s perspectives. Torture was inherently ineffective because appeasing one’s tormentor took precedent over truth. He just didn’t know why Bruce needed to be convinced that way.

“This isn’t a hypothetical. You crossed a line, Bruce.”

-

Batman couldn’t keep his eyes from rolling as he stood up and grabbed his gloves, heading towards the small washroom where he changed and showered after his patrols. He tossed his gloves to Alfred’s workbench and started to unload his weapons and gear. This fight was already more taxing than the mission and they had started off so well at the theatre. 

“We have different locations for where our personal line is, Clark…” he growled out quietly, his tone substantially less acerbic, “Either you learn to live with my methods or we stop working together. Simple as that.”

Bruce wasn’t fond of ultimatums, they usually simplified complex situations to the point of absurdity, but in this case, it really was that simple. He hoped that Clark would be able to understand why he did the things he did and remember the ends they were working towards together. It really was an advantage to have Superman on the team. If it came down to it though, Bruce would do as he’d always done and finish the job by himself. 

He didn’t want to think of the ramifications on their personal relationship.

-

Superman’s expression was mutinous, more human in his helpless anger than he was when he had a pair of glasses on. For a moment, it looked like he was going to push further, incensed enough to take the shot they both knew he had thought about, but he took a figurative step back, even if it wasn’t enough to unclench his hands. 

“What did you get?”

Though it was spoken in a far more civil tone, the question held a sharp edge that drew blood when he spoke, and for the first time since they’d started this thing between them, Clark was forced to reassess whether or not he could work with someone like Batman. He trusted Bruce beyond a shadow of the doubt, but he had never had to define the boundaries of that trust. 

He believed Bruce would keep his secret. He believed Bruce would never harm his family. He believed Bruce would fight until he lost all strength, with every resource at his disposal, for the sake of humanity. Clark just didn’t know if he could trust him to know what was right.

-

The clatter of his utility belt echoed through the cave, magnifying the tension tenfold as Batman waited for Superman to make his decision. He was ready to harden his heart the instant the man chose to defy him, the mission, justice, they were more important than a personal relationship. He’d always told himself that, found it easy to keep it his heart protected to prevent such pain in the past but with Clark… with Clark that had been impossible. 

It was a relief when the out he had given him wasn’t taken but Bruce was careful not to let his body betray the sentiment. He kept his muscles controlled as he pulled off the cowl and cape, every movement smooth and deliberate. 

“Our next target, a Swiss company is responsible for the shipments, I’ll be able to learn more from the Wayne Enterprise’s database…” Bruce turned, looking at Superman over his shoulder with a smirk that was more wry than playful, “But it looks like we’re going to Europe.”


End file.
